Breaking the Silence

I hadn't seen her for nearly three years, but I recognized her as soon as I saw her. Her walk, no her stride, was unmistakable, slightly stilted from pulling a travel case behind her. I would know it anywhere. She was walking into the large foyer of the hotel, headed toward the admission desk.

"Mistress."

The word came to my lips and whispered past them before I fully understood that I was seeing Gwendolyn in that hotel, at this conference. It was quite possible to run into her. We had originally met at this same convention three years ago. I suppose it was more surprising that we hadn't seen each other in the past three years. Then again, I had been avoiding a lot of things, work among them.

Three years is not very long, but if anything, Gwendolyn looked better at fifty than she had at forty seven. She was wearing a black blazer with a white blouse underneath. The black and red skirt swished slightly as she strode purposefully across the marble floor. Her hair was still auburn. It was pulled back into a loose ponytail. I imagined that she had just arrived from the airport for the seminar, since she was wearing sneakers with her business attire. I lost sight of her as she continued past the bar, probably to check into her room.

I had arrived at the hotel a couple of hours earlier. I didn't want to stay in my room, so I was in the bar. I was on my second gin and tonic, trying to relax. It was my first public appearance in a long time. I was concerned, but this seminar and convention promised to be a good networking opportunity. Depression and anxiety had sidelined me, but financial necessity forced me to try to reestablish myself. I had been so worried about attending the conference that I hadn't considered that my ex would be attending.

As I read the program more closely. I groaned inwardly at my own obtuseness. She was one of the keynote speakers.

I was still toying with the straw of my empty glass when I felt her presence. The bar was a sunken area close to the main entrance foyer of the hotel. I looked up and she was standing over me. I could see her shoes, she had changed into sensible black pumps; her legs were shapely. I swallowed. I had longed for and dreaded this moment for a long time.

"Hello Craig."

"You saw me." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, I saw you, Boy."

I winced. Three years later and I couldn't help but shiver. Boy wasn't a descriptor, it was my name, but...not really. Boy was my name when I called her Mistress. Only Gwendolyn called me Boy.

"I should explain..."

Her hand made a dismissive gesture; I fell silent.

"Boy," she murmured. "I wrote to you and warned you that silence could be wielded both ways. You chose silence; let's see if you can maintain it."

The name, Boy, rolled across my cheek like a slap. I could hear her anger, cold and icy, as though she had smacked me with a cold hand.

She flicked her wrist, checking the time on the delicate gold watch she wore on her right wrist. "It is 5:30 now. I will walk past this bar at 10:30 tonight. I will say nothing, just walk past. You may follow me and accept whatever happens. You will not talk to me until I grant you permission, if I grant you permission."

She didn't wait for anything, not even my assent or a nod. She turned on her heel and walked away, her skirt swirling just above her knees. I watched her as she walked out of the foyer. She did not look over her shoulder at me, but I think she would know if I had turned my head away. I raised my glass to my lips and tried to sip my empty drink.

I decided I wouldn't follow her. I wouldn't even wait.

I charged my tab to my room and went upstairs to lie down for a bit. I felt my guts clench. "You can follow me and accept whatever happens." What did she mean by that?

I thought of a thousand different scenarios, a hundred ways I could justify what had happened three years ago. I thought about not meeting with her; ignoring her ridiculous request. I could try to talk to her later. I was here for work, not to deal with personal crap. I didn't have time to deal with Gwen. I considered each idea and discarded it. Gwendolyn, no Mistress, I thought to myself, would have her way. If I wanted to explain, it would be on her terms. If I wanted a chance of forgiveness, I would simply have to follow her as she had asked.

I showered, shaved, and pulled on black slacks and a dark red shirt. I looked good in the color and Gwen had always liked it. I tried to tousle my hair, gave up and left the room. At 10:15, I got to the bar. It was much more crowded. The table I had sat at earlier had a group of conference attendees loosening up for the evening. I went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. I paid for it immediately, and then found a place to watch for Gwendolyn. I sipped the drink, watching anxiously, worried that I would miss her. I was sitting at the bar, nursing a gin and waiting for a woman I had fled three years ago, my stomach in knots and my cock twitching in anticipation of seeing her again.

I keep checking my cell phone, wondering if I have missed her. 10:29, 10:30, 10:33, 10:36. I hate this, waiting for her to come to me. I think she knows that. I think she knows that I fear she won't show up as much as I fear her arrival. She is late. At 10:38, I see her. Hell, I couldn't miss her. I felt that word whisper in my mind. Mistress...

She has changed, probably for the formal reception for the speakers. Instead of the business like suit, she is wearing a green dress that clings to every voluptuous curve. It is some sort of wrap dress. It crosses over and cradles her breasts, giving a hint of cleavage at the V. If I weren't sitting, I think my knees would have buckled. She draws the attention of everyone in the lobby and the bar. She walks with confidence, her head held high, a quirk of a smile on her face.

She is wearing black knee-high heeled boots that go almost to the hem of the dress. As she walks, I can glimpse her inner thighs as the dress parts at the wrap in front. The dress is demure sin and very much Gwendolyn. Her hair is like the outfit; a hint of something errant in the curls framing her face, in spite of the tasteful pinned knot at the back.

I feel blood rush into my cock. I hadn't known until this moment if I could follow her or not. I had a fantasy of watching her walk by and raising my glass in toast. I had been a fool to think that I wouldn't follow Mistress the moment she walked by. Her very presence had driven me to run three years before; that same presence draws me to my feet now.

She does not look at me, does not look for me. She does not even turn her head toward the bar. She saunters past, her breasts bouncing slightly with her walk. Nothing suggests she noticed me. She simply keeps walking. I understand, she won't say anything to me, I either follow or I don't. I blow out my breath, put my drink on the bar and I resolutely follow her. The three years of not talking to her had been purgatory, even if it had been one of my own making. I would do anything to get out of it; following Gwen was an easy choice, even if it frightened the shit out of me.

She steps into a nearly full elevator, full of convention attendees. I have to push to get in. There are some grumbles in my direction, but I say nothing. I keep myself focused on her, not wanting to lose her when she steps off. The elevator rises and people got off. She stays on, staring straight ahead, not acknowledging me at all.

She steps off on the 19th floor. She draws a key card out of a small black bag and walks down the corridor. She stops at a door and without a word, steps inside. I follow, entering a nicely appointed hotel room.

While I was speaking at the convention, I wasn't a keynote. I had a single. Gwen has a suite. It is much larger than my room and already smells of Gwen, the light scent of her soap, her perfume, and just her. There is a sitting area with a mini-bar behind it. Gwendolyn tosses her bag on one of the stuffed chairs and keeps walking. I follow her into the adjacent bedroom. It has a king sized bed, larger than the queen in my room. It has been turned down and there is a mint on the pillow.

I enter the room and wait, wondering what happens next. Gwendolyn sits down at the desk in the room and crosses her legs. She looks at me, her face twitching with that same small smile and her eyes are bright. She says nothing. She just gazes at me.

Her silence unnerves me. Gwen was never silent. We had started because she chatted me up at a convention, asking about the logo on my shirt. Whenever we went out, she would keep up a running commentary that was always interesting. Fascinating is the word I would use to describe her. I shouldn't suggest that Gwen did all the talking, she just talked enough that I was so comfortable when she finally started drawing out my life story that I found myself confiding in her as though I had known her for years. Before I knew it, she had found out everything about me. What was better, she honestly wanted to know. I loved listening to Gwen. I loved talking to Gwen.

In bed, it was the same. She approached sex with candor and a smile. She talked about what she liked. She got me to share my tastes and before I had realized it, we had established a rather workable power exchange. I was never more happy to be on my knees and calling a woman Mistress than I had been with her. Cajoling and coaxing me, she encouraged me into a submissive space where I felt so damn safe. Things between us were so good that I ran away. I ran like a coward, like a fool, leaving without giving her an explanation. I had been the one who hadn't talked, who had left her emails and texts unanswered. After a couple of texts, she stopped. A day later I received an email. All it said was that silence cuts both ways.

Now, that silence stretches between us. I stand there, wondering what I should do. I look to Gwendolyn, but she simply looks back, saying nothing. I feel myself getting nervous. I want to say something, which is her intention. If I speak, I think she will tell me to leave and that will be the end of it.

I stand there for what feels like hours, although it's probably about five minutes.

Her voice is low, and it surprises me. "I don't expect you to figure everything out, Boy." I feel my throat tighten, Boy, she called me Boy. "You followed me here," she continues. "Now you will accept what happens, and keep that silence of which you have been so fond." Her voice drips with sarcasm and anger. I wonder if I am safe. I want to say something, the words forming in my mouth.

We had always used a safeword, well three years ago we did. She was Mistress now and so she observes the shift of my body and guesses my question. "Yes, that means giving up your safeword, Boy. I told you, silence could be wielded both ways. You will have to trust that I am kinder with your silence than you were with my heart." Her eyes glint in triumph. "Of course, you can also leave."

No, I can't, and she knows it. Her cat claw smile shows me that she knows. She told me I could walk out of the room the same way a boss asks if I can work overtime. It is a formality. I feel my cock twitch. Hell, I feel my cock swell and grow.

She regards me in silence a few minutes longer, staring until I visibly shift my weight. "Undress." Her voice is low and firm. I remembered her more talkative commands, burbling and almost not a command at all, but then this is nothing like what we had shared three years ago.

I methodically remove my shirt. I sit down on the bed to remove my socks and shoes. I look at her a couple of times, wondering if I should give her more of a show, but she says nothing, just keeps looking at me with a steady, unnerving gaze. I find myself balling my socks into my shoes and then neatly folding my shirt over the back of a nearby chair. I feel like I should be neat and tidy, although usually I would just drop my clothes on the floor. I put my shoes under a chair. I shuck off my pants, standing only in briefs, She says nothing, so I remove the underwear too and stand naked in front of her.

"Pull down the sheets and remove the pillows." Her voice is soft, direct and so cold.

I put the mint on to the nightstand. I fold back the sheets so that they are at the end of the bed. I pick up decorative cushions and pillows and place them on floor by the window. I feel my hard cock swing between my legs. She has not done anything to me yet, but I am already hard and aroused. I feel my cheeks warm. I turn toward her and look.

"Lie down on the bed, face down."

I sprawl myself onto the bed.

"I won't tie you, Boy. You will have to willingly submit to my discipline, without anything to restrain you."

I understand my Mistress. I brought this upon myself, so there would be no ropes to offer the pretense that this was happening against my will. By lying down, I am admitting that I deserve to be punished. I am asking for her forgiveness and accepting the consequences of my actions. I had been silent for three years. This was the first step in putting it behind us.

"You should have contacted me on the 14th, do you remember?" She does not wait for an answer. "I waited for you, Boy. I waited for you to call me." I hear the catch in her voice, the icy anger. "Everything is going to be in fourteen, so you don't forget that day. I certainly haven't."

I feel my legs tremble. Her last words are light and honeyed, but that change in tone causes me more fear than her cold anger.

I feel something cold touch the back of my legs, encouraging them to part. I spread my legs slightly and feel something rest on my ass. It flat and is made of something smooth, probably wood. The paddle is a cool expanse and I realize that there will be no warm up.

I feel the paddle rise up in a whoosh and then come back down with a press of air. A snap crack corresponds to the gentle blossom of pain on the left cheek of my ass. The cool wood presses against the slightly warm spot. Another whoosh and another snap crack on the right cheek.

She hits my ass in quick succession, snap, crack, crack, snap, four hits across the lower round. It stings like warm ice. I hold in a gasp. I feel my breath blow out of my mouth. I tense, but the next blow doesn't come. The paddle lingers on my ass, caressing along the crack. I shudder.

I feel the pull as Gwen picks up the paddle and the air pushes down as she lands it square on the center of my ass, the blow drumming through to my cock. I can't help a grunt. I tense, awaiting something, but Gwen says nothing, she just smacks the paddle down, one on each cheek of my ass. I feel the pain blossom across, warm and red, like fire.

The next two strikes are lighter, stinging where the paddle has already landed. I feel the pain intensify. My legs shudder. Gwen lays the paddle into my ass two more times, once again on the center. The paddling continues. There are fourteen on side of my ass, Then she lands twenty eight on the other. Then fourteen in the center. I feel the blows into my cock, which softens slightly and then I feel it harden again.

The bed shift as Gwen straddles on top of me. I realize that she is facing toward my feet. She is still wearing her dress, but there is nothing on underneath. I feel her juices dripping on my still painful ass. The boots squeeze along my back. I push my head into the mattress, wishing I could beg, apologize, scream, anything. I continue to breath, feeling my back twitch as her wetness laves my ass, feeling warm and smelling sweet.

She shifts her weight, grabbing something from her bag.

I feel a light snap on my right leg, just above the ankle. It is quick and doesn't quite hurt when the blow lands. But I can feel light snaps lingering as she snaps 12 strikes her way up my leg. Then there are two last coming very close to my sore ass. I squirm underneath her.

Gwen pushes her weight down harder. She begins the same process on my left leg. The light snaps don't hurt at first, but as she repeats the process over and over, the pain begins to layer and the sting grows hotter. I am sure she is still doing sets of 14, but I lose count. The pain is exquisite, it is torture. It is catharsis.

I feel her nails. Four on each leg, I feel her nails scratch along my calves. I knew where each welt from that light snap is because when she scratches across them, the pain is even more intense. I want to move my legs, get away, but her weight keeps me pinned down. I feel everything melt slightly. Her wetness slides down across my right hip and I feel my cock twitch, hard against the crisp sheets.

I feel her get up and I almost cry at the loss. The wet on my back chills as it exposes to air. I shudder with the cold. Gwen is not a small woman. I feel her hands on my hips as she turns me over. I follow her unspoken lead and lie on my back.

I wince as my ass touches the sheets. I nearly cry when the welts on my legs rest on the cotton. She straddles my prone body, her front toward my feet, her dress puddling over my crotch and legs. I feel my cock rise into the warmth between her thighs. I want to say...something. I want her to say that it is okay. The silence in the room is like a song, overwhelming and intense. I want her. I feel the whimper in my throat. She says nothing.

I see the instrument in her hand. It is a shiny, dull red. It is thin and looks like a long nail. I see her hands holding two of them. I recognize them as knitting needles. Gwen couldn't stand to sit without doing something with her hands. I had seen her use knitting needles to make things, but never to punish.

She presses the point into the skin where my ankle joins the bottom of my left leg. I feel the point drag along my leg, moving up. I count in my head. She scratches up my legs, each stroke 1, 2, spiraling up 3, 4, coming closer to my thighs, 5, 6. The seventh one excruciates up my inner thigh, toward my cock. I feel my body arch, I am hoping she will and praying that she won't bring that wicked needle near my dick. I am disappointed and thankful when she does not.

I become aware of her body as she leans down over my right leg to repeat the process. I think she presses harder. Each drag with the needle is blessedly agonizing. I feel sweat beading on my forehead. I count in my head, 1, 2, spiraling up my leg 3, 4, 5, 6, and then on the seventh stroke, I feel the tip of the needle on my cock, just under the head. She slowly dragged the knitting point against the delicate skin of my penis. I feel her breath, warm and soft, on my dick. I am afraid that it would hurt, but unlike my legs, which still feel as though the needle were dragging against them, the pressure on my cock is just a little bit painful, but bearable, arousing...amazing.

She lifts off of me again, her strong legs as graceful as a dancer. She walks over to the bureau and opens a drawer. I can hear the slide of the rollers. I hear her breath, slow and deliberate. I hear my own, ragged and quick. I feel like my body is wired, like I had too much caffeine and too much sloe gin. When she walks back over to me, my mouth goes dry. In her hands is a whip.

The handle looks like a piece of leather wrapped pipe. I can see the weight of it in her hand. Attached to the handle is a short length of chain, only a few inches long. Attached to the chain is one of the wickedest cat o' nine tails I have ever seen. She says nothing, merely shows me the leather tails. They are plied at the end. It will hurt, but this is not meant to break the skin. I reach my face up and kiss the part of the whip, the soft leather tails, closest to my mouth in assent. She can do what she wants to me. I am hers.

She steps back. Her hair has fallen from its knot, swirling around her shoulders. With a nod, she indicates that I should turn over. I roll over, relieved to have my ass and legs off the sheets. I sense a gentle swish as her dress whisks past me. I feel her give a couple of test swings, whipping the bedclothes on either side of me. Then she starts on my back. The first blow is heavy, a thud. She hits my left and then my right shoulder blade. I feel the air move as the next two blows splay across my back. I understand the intention of the flogger. Each blow builds on the last one. I feel my shoulders slowly ripen as blood flushes my skin. I can feel the thuddy whip as it leaves long welts on my back. The stripes overlap each other until each of the fourteen blows deliberately covers my back in burgeoning pain.